BALLADE OF ÆSTHETIC ADJECTIVES.
There be “subtle” and “sweet,” that are bad ones to beat,
There are “lives unlovely,” and “souls astray;”
There is much to be done yet with “moody” and “meet,”
And “ghastly,” and “grimly,” and “gaunt,” and “grey;”
We should ever be “blithesome,” but never be gay,
And “splendid” is suited to “summer” and “sea;”
“Consummate,” they say, is enjoying its day,—
“Intense” is the adjective dearest to me!
The Snows and the Rose they are “windy” and “fleet,”
And “frantic” and “faint” are Delight and Dismay;
Yea, “sanguine,” it seems, as the juice of the beet,
Are “the hands of the King” in a general way:
There be loves that quicken, and sicken, and slay;
“Supreme” is the song of the Bard of the free;
But of adjectives all that I name in my lay,
“Intense” is the adjective dearest to me!
The Matron intense—let us sit at her feet,
And pelt her with lilies as long as we may;
The Maiden intense—is not always discreet;
But the Singer intense, in his “singing array,”
Will win all the world with his roundelay:
While “blithe” birds carol from tree to tree,
And Art unto Nature doth simper, and say,—
“‘Intense’ is the adjective dearest to me!”
Prince, it is surely as good as a play
To mark how the poets and painters agree;
But of plumage æsthetic that feathers the jay,
“Intense” is the adjective dearest to me!
BALLADE OF THE PLEASED BARD.
They call me “dull,” “affected,” “tame;”
My Muse “has neither voice nor wing;”
My prose (though lucrative) is “lame,”
My satires, “wasps without the sting.”
The Critic thus—Opprobrious thing!—
No more I heed or hear his chaff,
Nor note the ink that he may sling—
A Lady wants my autograph!
All heedless of the common blame,
My muse her random rhymes will string;
The Boers may shoot, the Irish “schame,”
The world and all its woes go swing!
My heart has ceased from sorrowing,
I grasp Apollo’s laurell’d staff,
And cry aloud, like anything,—
A Lady wants my autograph!
Oh Flatt’ry, soft, delicious flame!
Oh, fairer than the flowers of Spring,
These blossoms of the noblest name
A lady’s good enough to fling!
Ah, tie them with a silver string,
Crown, crown the bowl with shandygaff,
And shout, till all the welkin ring,—
“A Lady wants my autograph!”